


The Spoils of War

by ChillsofFire



Series: MegOp Week 2020 [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, M/M, Post-Predacons Rising (Prime Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22133263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChillsofFire/pseuds/ChillsofFire
Summary: Megatron must come to terms with the aftermath of the war.
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Series: MegOp Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593238
Comments: 15
Kudos: 80
Collections: MegOP Week 2020





	The Spoils of War

**Author's Note:**

> I've been so excited for MegOp Week!! Hope you enjoy my response to the first prompt: Pre/Post War

Megatron lands, heavier than he once was, in Kaon’s streets. It’s quiet, worse than the silence of a graveyard, and even the natural shift of metal plating seems deafening. Megatron tries to ignore it, tries not to let it bother him, but he remembers the sounds that had once filled these streets, the bustling crowds that had given life to a city left to die, and he cannot shake the weight that begins to settle in his tank.

Kaon is empty, and it’s his fault.

He moves; forces his pedes to carry him forward, retracing paths he hasn’t walked in millennia.

The Pit looks the same as when he had left it. Long, high walls that hide the arena, tall, arching doorways, soot and blaster marks decorating the surface of the metal. The only difference is the missing statue, blasted to pieces across the street and walkway instead of standing proud above the main entrance. 

Very little remains of it, but Megatron remembers what it was.

_"Don’t you think this is a little…much?”_

_“Perhaps, a bit. But they were inspired, who am I to deny them?”_

_“Right, of course. And I’m sure this does nothing to elevate your pride.”_

The memory of a playful smile is almost painful now, but Megatron does not try to push it away. The weight in his tank grows heavier.

_I should leave._

It is not the first time he’s told himself that. He does not heed the words. Instead he moves forward again, stepping over the remains of his carved face and into the tunnel that dips down into darkness.

_"Someone will-hha!-see us!”_

_“No one will see us.”_

_“Ngh…but…”_

_“I need you, now; I cannot wait through the walk home.”_

_“Ah! Megatronus!”_

There’s light. His throat feels tight, his spark has clenched itself into an unforgiving knot, but his optics readjust quickly as he steps into it. Megatron blinks, and finds himself inside the Pit once more.

He keeps walking, pedesteps echoing loudly in the space that was once filled with battle cries and powerful speeches. 

Megatron comes to a standstill in the middle of the arena. Air, cold and stale, is pulled slowly through his vents. His optics stare forward, angled up just enough so he can see the empty spectator seats, and he turns, rotating so he can take it all in. 

His optics halt on a single seat.

_"I didn’t think you enjoyed the fights.”_

_“I don’t.”_

_“An odd place to see you then, in the front row of the arena.”_

_“I am not a fan of these matches. I am not here to support them. I came to support you…”_

Megatron lowers his optics, forcing himself to look away. He suddenly wishes that he had done more, done something, anything, to change the arena, the Pit itself. It looks too untouched, even after all these years. Built sturdy and strong, it had been made to survive centuries of abuse, and because of that, it had been left mostly alone during the war, unchanged save for the few minor modifications that had been needed to turn a gladiators battleground into a war efforts base of operation.

Not that those who held the title had seen a difference between the two. A fight was a fight; to the victor, the spoils.

_The spoils of war are not the same as those of a match…_

Megatron transforms. He feels wrong, unaccustomed to his new weight, his new frame, but he takes to the air easily enough, flying high above the Pit in seconds.

He tells himself he should keep flying; higher, higher, farther from the Pit and Kaon and Cybertron itself. He tells himself he should follow the plan he’d had when he first flew away from Optimus and Starscream and the container caging Unicron. He tells himself to leave.

But he doesn’t. 

-

_Orion is talking. He’s been talking since they arrived, about the Council, about the unrest, about something Megatronus had said in an earlier speech. He’s talking, and he’s walking, and Megatronus knows he should be listening better, because the things Orion says are important, relevant to their goals, and he should be offering something to the conversation, but he’s too busy watching the careful way Orion moves, the delicate way he touches the few items around the room, inquisitive but respectful. Gentle. He’s too distracted by the gleam in Orion’s optics, the familiar way they’ve lightened up as he becomes more passionate about his words._

_They’ve known each other for long enough now, to be friends, to share trust, but this is the first time Megatronus has allowed Orion into the space he calls home, and he’s apparently unable to think about anything other than that fact._

_He feels like a newbuild. He is a grown mech, he has killed more Cybertronians than many of Cybertron’s experienced soldiers, he is roaring about regime changes, becoming the leader of a growing revolution. But the sight of Orion in his home is enough to send his thoughts flying in all the wrong directions._

_“Megatronus? Are you listening?”_

_He blinks, suddenly aware that Orion is looking at him. He’s stopped walking, standing now on the other side of the simple couch that takes up most of the space in the room._

_“No,” Megatronus tells him honestly, because Orion has become skilled in spotting his lies, and is not so easily hurt that Megatronus feels the need to spare his feelings. It’s a trait he admires in his friend; one of many. “Orion, I am glad for your support, but we have been discussing our plans for cycles now. Let us take a break, hm?”_

_Orion blinks, outwardly confused. Megatronus forces himself not to smile at the sudden way his optic ridges draw together._

_“I thought…did you not invite me here to continue our discussions?”_

_He had. That was the original idea. But now, suddenly, Megatronus does not want to discuss the Council, or the Prime, or anything related to them._

_“I invited you here to offer you an evening drink. You seemed uncomfortable at the oil house the other night.”_

_He expects to be called on his bluff, his sudden change in desire. But apparently bringing up their previous drink together is enough to distract Orion. He shifts minutely, clearing his throat in mild embarrassment._

_“Was it that obvious?”_

_Megatronus cannot help the smile that forms, “Only if one watched closely. Come, sit, I’ll get us something to drink.”_

The building he had once resided in is gone now, collapsed and charred, reduced to a pile of rusted debris. But Megatron, standing beside it, sees it as it was. He remembers that night clearly, can remember every detail. One drink had turned to two, conversation had turned to stories, their laughter had filled the room late into the night. Eventually it had been decided that it was safer for Orion to stay, and they had argued about sleeping arrangements, because Orion refused to take his berth, and Megatronus had refused to allow him to take the couch. On the first night Megatronus had invited Orion into his home, he also found himself sharing his berth.

A small smile twitches at the corner of Megatron’s mouth; it’s devoid of any real joy, more wistful than happy, and it only serves to add more weight to the already heavy burden in his tank.

_Stubborn. Always so stubborn._

He turns, begins to walk away.

_I should leave._

But he doesn’t.

-

Iacon is a graveyard of buildings. The glowing blue that signals the life returned to the planet does nothing to distract from the gray skeletons that were once proud skyscrapers. It doesn’t erase the craters in the streets, or the burn marks of explosives that streak anything and everything in the city. All of the most notable landmarks have been stripped away.

But Megatron had learned to walk Iacon as confidently as he had Kaon, and he knows where he’s trying to go. He doesn’t know why he wants to go, but he knows where.

The sun is just barely beginning to set as he turns down a familiar road, but in his memory it is already night, and the street is lit up with glowing signs calling attention to store fronts. 

Megatronus and Orion had known each other for longer, in this memory, and friendship was beginning to give way to something deeper, something they were both aware of, but were both unwilling to give a name to. They didn’t talk about it. But if optics met for longer than necessary, if Megatronus’ servo brushed against Orion’s as they walked, if they sat closer than they had to when they visited Maccadam’s, well, that was just fine with them.

Tonight, the sky is clear. It’s beautiful, actually, the moon just beginning to reflect the streaks of color the sun paints as it descends, but on the night Megatron remembers, the sky was heavy with clouds. It made the night seem that much darker, the shop signs that much brighter.

Megatron turns his head, his pedes slowing. The alcove he’s looking for should be here, just to his left. 

_Thunder rumbles in warning above them, and the crowd begins to thin as everyone rushes for cover. Megatronus notices the movement, but not the thunder, so he doesn’t understand the urgency around them until the first drop of rain lands on his shoulder with a stinging hiss._

_“Oh…”_

_Megatronus looks to Orion, meaning to assure him that one drop won’t kill him, but Orion isn’t looking at him, he’s looking straight up, and when Megatronus does the same, he is met with the sight of dark, looming storm clouds._

_Their optics meet, the full danger of the moment not completely setting upon the two mechs who had been laughing together mere seconds ago. Orion flashes an almost apologetic smile, and Megatronus forgets about the rain droplet. He smiles right back, chuckling lowly._

_It’s the sound of the rain that gets their attention. It comes down in sheets, drumming loudly against buildings and the ground, creating a dull roar behind them that gets louder and louder as the downpour moves toward them._

_They glance back at the same time, watching in slowly dawning horror as acid rain rushes in their direction._

_Megatronus feels Orion grab his servo, and a second later he is being pulled down the street, stumbling for just a moment under the surprising amount of strength being displayed by the archivist._

_“Come on!”_

_He gets his pedes under him, and soon he’s sprinting at Orion’s side, his spark pounding rapidly, partly in excitement, partly in instinctual fear, as they race against the rain._

_“There!” Orion points, reaching across his chest to direct his attention._

_“Go!” Megatronus pushes him in front, closer to the safety Orion has spotted, and together they stumble into the shelter of a small alcove. Seconds later, the rain reaches them, and they both laugh breathlessly as they watch it come down._

_“If I had known Iacon was expecting rain, I would have suggested meeting in Kaon,” Megatronus teases._

_Orion laughs again, “I will be sure to check our weather next time.”_

_He looks up, meeting Megatronus’ optics, and Megatronus is suddenly aware of how close they are pressed together._

_Their servos are still intertwined._

There’s a hole in its place.

Megatron turns away from the sad remains of the place where he and Orion had shared their first kiss.

He tells himself this is a waste of time. What good does it do to drag himself through these memories? What does it change?

He tells himself he should leave.

But he doesn’t.

-

The surface of Cybertron has a strange, horribly sad beauty to it. Energon lights up the planet from the inside out, signaling life, hope, a new beginning. But it flows around scattered debris. Every city is destroyed. In some cases, they are flattened entirely. It will take years to rebuild, years to clear away the damage that has been done.

The weight in Megatron’s tank shifts, twisting uncomfortably. He tries to ignore it, instead focusing on his flying. He doesn’t have a direction in mind this time, no destination to get to. Just anywhere that isn’t Iacon. Somewhere that doesn’t hold the memories he no longer wants to think about. 

From the alcove he’d sought out Orion’s old apartment, and the memory of their first night together had not hesitated to jump to the front of his mind, all heated metal and desperate gasps. He’d pulled himself away from the rubble that remained, forced himself to keep walking.

He’d intended to continue, to roam the streets for a while longer, but his absentminded walking eventually led him to the Council Hall, and the memories that surfaced were bitter and angry. They’d hurt in a way Megatron hadn’t been expecting. And the memories of fury and betrayal had clashed with the sweet memories of joy and closeness, the dam he had slowly been opening crashing down all at once, and Megatron had taken to the air with the singular thought of outrunning them.

But he couldn’t outrun his own mind.

Kaon would offer no reprieve. There were too many corners, too many streets with memories of late night discussions, of heated arguments when their politics clashed. Every arena had its own blend; stolen touches, teasing words, careful planning, passionate debates.

_"What you say is interesting, but more people are hearing than you realize. Let’s speak.”_

Orion Pax’s first words to him.

_“If you have goals beyond Kaon, you’re going to need to tailor your message so it will resonate beyond the castes who smelt ore and die in the pits.”_

_“Or the rest of Cybertron should learn to understand those castes. Even you do not, and you consider yourself one of us.”_

_“Then show me what I do not understand.”_

Their first conversation, which had caught his attention and made him curious enough to meet with an archivist from Iacon.

_“Soon they will chant your name, too.”_

Kaon would not help him.

Iacon held softer memories. Long nights, lingering touches, quiet conversations about the future.

The Council Hall.

_“I do not wish to control them; I believe, as you do, that freedom is the right of all sentient beings.”_

_“Lies!”_

_“No! I do not want to lead, but I will if I must. And if you will break away from all the laws of Cybertron and from all the traditions of the Primes, then lead I must.”_

Megatron’s spark clenches. He flies faster.

But where could he go?

The Sonic Canyons; they had battled there, and Optimus Prime had asked him to see reason. He had snarled, and they had fought.

Technahar; he had ordered Skyquake to eliminate Optimus.

Praxus.

Vos.

Crystal City.

They had fought, they had fought, they had fought, loving servos moving in anger, tender touches turned to fists and sharpened blades. Words of hope and change and promise had morphed to pleas, tired reasoning, heated insults. 

They had painted themselves onto every surface of this planet. There was nowhere to turn that did not hold a memory of some kind. Nowhere he could run to find freedom from these thoughts.

Helex.

The shores of the Sea of Rust.

The Well of All Sparks. They had fought desperately over it. They had shouted, and tore at each other. Optimus had defended it with everything he had, had led battle after battle to keep it under Autobot control. He’d slept at its edge, he’d stood guard there.

He’d died there.

Megatron’s spark clenches again, and the weight in his tank twists painfully. He can’t get enough air, he feels hot, too hot, and he’s landing before he knows it, transforming ungracefully to stumble against the charred surface of Cybertron. His vents gasp, and his optics burn.

Why do his optics burn?

Megatron remembers the last look he had seen on Optimus’ face. It had been mere days ago, but it feels like a lifetime now. Tired; they were both so tired. Optimus held Unicron’s trapped essence, and he’d watched, and he’d listened as Megatron finally, _finally_ admitted he was wrong. 

He had known exactly what Optimus had done. Had known exactly what that empty container had meant for the Allspark. And for Optimus.

He had not been there when the Well was rekindled, but he had seen the bright flare of light, caught the flashes of sparks as they erupted from it. And he had known, he had known.

Primus his optics _burn!_

Megatron reaches up to brush away whatever irritant had blown into his face, distractedly angry over the thought that Unicron had somehow disabled the internal systems that were supposed to warn him about foreign objects.

His digits come away wet, and Megatron stares at them.

_"How would you change it?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“The castes, the system, the government. If everything goes our way, how would you change it?”_

_“I have thought hard on the matter, just as I imagine you have. There is no singular easy answer, is there Orion Pax?”_

_“No. There is not.”_

_Megatronus smiles a little, “I would start with removing the Council. They are old, and set in stagnant ways. I would rebuild there, first.”_

_Orion nods slowly, “Would you want to lead the Council?”_

_“Why would I not?”_

_Orion looks at him, quiet, curious._

_“I would not trust others to follow through. They may stray from our ideals. Why should I not lead the change I have started?”_

_“There is logic in your reasoning,” Orion looks up again, watching the stars that glitter above them._

_Megatronus nudges him lightly, “You and I will rebuild the Council together. We will lead Cybertron into a new Golden Era. I told you before, Orion, that you help me see clearly. I will need you at my side.”_

His vision is blurry now, and his throat is tight, too tight. 

He blinks quickly, trying to regain his sight. There is a shadow in the distance, too far to be illuminated by the veins of light on the planet’s surface. Instead it shines, reflecting the light that comes from the Well, and Megatron recognizes the Nemesis.

_“I am here, Megatron, on your ship!”_

He swallows, but his throat is still too tight. His optics fill with tears again. It’s a strange feeling. 

He had wanted to change Cybertron, had wanted to breathe new life into it, into its people. When exactly had he decided he could only do so as a Prime? When exactly had he traded change for power?

Optimus had been right. And he only saw that now that it was too late.

His vision clears momentarily as the tears that had welled fall from his optics, rolling over his face with a foreign sensation of burning, wet heat. 

_You said you would fight for your ideals. And fight you did. Are you happy now?_

He had challenged Orion, many times, for looking at the world only as an archivist. Too wrapped up in words, unwilling to take action.

That had been his mistake. He’d looked at the world too much like a gladiator. Too willing to rush into a fight, not taking the time for words. 

He had been willing to go to war the moment he began to speak out.

 _You got what you wanted._ The words are bitter even in his own head. _A fight is a fight, right?_

Megatron wants to yell. He wants to tear something to pieces. There are no victors, not this time. Optimus is dead, their people are scattered to the universe, his officers are gone, the Autobots are stranded, and he is a stranger in a body that is not his, his own form stolen and warped into _this_. Megatron wants to be furious.

But he is too tired. He is too tired to be angry, too tired to fight off the memories that cloud his head.

Megatron sinks to his knees in the darkness, moving to sit on the cool ground beneath him. 

He sits, his optics blurring again. He doesn’t try to stop the tears. He sits, and he remembers, and he looks toward the Well, toward the place Optimus had given his life to fix _his_ mistakes.

And Megatron mourns.

-

The sun rises to find him still seated, still awake. His spark still aches with sadness and regret, but his tears are dried now. The knot in his throat has loosened.

Megatron had told himself, one last time, that he should go. He no longer belongs here, he should leave.

But he _can’t._

Cybertron is what they had fought for. Cybertron is what they had wanted to change. And, broken and destroyed as it is, Cybertron is still his home, is still _Optimus’_ home.

Megatron feels like a coward for ever thinking of leaving.

Optimus is dead. The rest of his Autobots are huddled in the Nemesis with Knock Out, surrounded by new sparks with no protoforms to bond to. Soundwave is missing. Starscream and Shockwave have gone.

Cybertron needs him. It needs a leader to guide it as it grows and rebuilds. 

The Autobots will not want him, but Megatron cannot bring himself to care. Optimus would be disappointed to see him abandoned the planet now.

Megatron pushes himself to his pedes. He is surrounded by the scattered remains of buildings. An old missile shell. Scorched ground. This is what remains. This is what they have to work with.

Cybertron _needs_ him. He needs Cybertron. He needs to help. 

Optimus is gone. So he must take the lead.

A single step takes him closer to his old ship. One turns into another. And another. Carrying him closer to the only ones who remain.

He is tired. He is alone. But he is alive. Alive at the end of the war.

The time of Cybertronian gladiators is long over, Optimus would have wanted that, and he would see it so, but the rules remain the same.

A fight is a fight.

To the survivor, the spoils.


End file.
